


Parks and Revolution

by owlinaminor



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Parks and Recreation
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Female Combeferre, Female Courfeyrac, Humor, M/M, Multi, Trans Character, parks and recreation AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3767032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Pawnee, Indiana: First in friendship, fourth in obesity.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>(or: the Parks and Rec AU that enough people were definitely asking for.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Master Plan

**Author's Note:**

> here we go. chapter one out of possibly forty. get excited, because this is going to be ridiculous.
> 
> I'm starting at the end of season 2 and writing approximately one chapter per episode. (a few episodes might end up getting skipped here and there if they aren't relevant to the plot, but I'm not sure yet. I'm sort-of winging it for now.) updates will hopefully be on a weekly basis, on fridays or saturdays.
> 
> this story was inspired by [this brilliant tumblr post](http://officialcourfiusette.tumblr.com/post/114933561870/but-have-we-considered-a-les-mis-parks-and-rec-au). I also have to thank [Kay](http://sheergossamer.tumblr.com/) for her great beta-ing skills.

_Pawnee, Indiana: First in friendship, fourth in obesity._

The sign is positioned right next to the road, almost impossible to miss for any and all oncoming traffic  It’s roughly the size of a small billboard, bright green, and colorfully lettered with pinks and oranges not normally seen outside of a college rave.  And, as though that’s not enough, there are pictures, and graphics, and smiley faces, and even a couple of cartoon hearts.  The billboard is trying so hard to be welcoming, like a golden retriever eager for praise from every person it encounters.

And yet, on a sunny spring morning, a navy blue Honda Accord turns past the sign and heads into town at precisely two and a half miles per hour over the speed limit.  Both of the car’s occupants, engaged in a spirited argument over which radio station to play, fail to notice their surroundings entirely.

* * *

At eight thirty in the morning, most of Pawnee is still waking up.  People are sinking into their cars, reaching for travel mugs of coffee as though they’re lifelines.  Kids in first period at school are begging their teachers to cancel class so that they can sleep for a few more minutes.  Even the sky isn't ready to fully commit to the concept of daylight, lazily shifting from black to midnight blue to cerulean. The entire city is groggy in the morning, sluggishly preparing itself for another day of work – lowering its nose reluctantly to the grindstone.

Well, _almost_ the entire city.

Enjolras prides himself on being the first member of the Parks and Recreation department to arrive at work every single morning.  There’s something about City Hall just before nine A.M. that he really loves – the pristine floors waiting to be stepped on, the walls waiting to listen in on meetings, the offices that will soon be filled with dedicated civil servants -- something about the _potential_.  Today, in this building, local government is going to change lives for the better, and Enjolras can’t wait to watch it happen.

Bahorel arrives at work at precisely nine A.M. every morning – no earlier, no later.  He does not see the value of City Hall as a building – or of local government as an institution, for that matter.  Today, in this building, the government will dictate precisely what people should do with their lives and property, enforcing standards that it has no right to enforce.  The less Bahorel can take part in that, the better.

On this particular morning, when Bahorel opens the door of the Parks Department, Enjolras is already waiting, binder in hand.

Bahorel attempts to bypass and get to his office – his wonderful, private office with wonderful, private walls – but Enjolras just side-steps along with him.

“What are you doing?” Bahorel demands.

“Don’t you remember what day it is?” Enjolras counters.  He holds up his binder, which features a bold that reads: “MASTER PLAN PROPOSAL 2011”.

Bahorel sighs.  “That’s _today_?”

Enjolras nods, and allows himself a small smile.  Every year, the different service departments of Pawnee send their heads to meet in one room, where each department makes a proposal for how much money it should be allocated from the yearly budget and why.  The eventual agreement is called, “The Master Plan,” which Enjolras secretly thinks is kind-of cool, even though he’d be loathe to admit it.

Bahorel only goes to the meeting for the free coffee and doughnuts.  Which aren’t even that good, to be honest.

Enjolras and Bahorel arrive in the conference room at nine fifteen and take their usual seats in the third row (a compromise between Enjolras’ desire to be front and center and Bahorel’s desire to be as far back as possible.)  Five minutes later, Lamarque, the city manager, takes the podium to scattered applause.

Enjolras is ready to shoot his hand up the second Lamarque asks who wants to propose first when he hears, “The Master Plan meeting this year has been cancelled.”

“Excuse me?” Enjolras exclaims.

“No Master Plan this year,” Lamarque repeats.  “As you know, the city has been in a bit of a financial crisis, and –”

“But how are we supposed to provide services to our citizens?”

“There’s nothing we can do without a budget,” Lamarque says.  “This is serious.  In fact, the state government has sent a pair of auditors to Pawnee to help us fix our budget crisis.  They should be here in an hour or two.”

“Auditors?”  The pitch of Enjolras’ voice is abruptly rising.  “Budget crisis?  But the citizens of Pawnee need –”

“Need you to calm down,” Bahorel interrupts.  “Like Lamarque said, there’s nothing we can do without a budget.  I, for one, think it’s great.  Big government finally getting what’s coming to it, and all that.”  He grins, pats Enjolras on the back, and leaves.

And the rest of the meeting files out around Enjolras, arms crossed and expression like that of a suburban mother who was just told her child got kicked off the rec soccer team.

* * *

When Combeferre checks her phone during her first break in five hours, she has ten unread messages, and nine of them are from one person.

She stares at the phone for a few seconds.  She takes off her glasses.  She rubs her eyes.  She puts her glasses back on.

One can really only delay the inevitable for so long.

Combeferre presses the first number on her speed dial and holds the phone to her ear.  She doesn’t have to wait long.

“Ferre!  Why didn’t you pick up?”

“Because I have a _job_ , remember?” Combeferre replies.  “A job that doesn’t have very flexible hours.”

“An incredibly important job at which you save lives on a daily basis, I know,” Enjolras says, impatient.  “Still, I’m in the middle of a crisis here!”

“Really.”

“Ferre, didn’t you listen to my messages?”

“No.”

“You’re a terrible friend.”

Combeferre grabs an apple off of the snack table in the break room (an apple a day only keeps the doctor away if the doctor is a wimp) and plops down on a conveniently located couch.  “I’m your best friend.”

“You are,” Enjolras agrees.  “I’m sorry.  And the city is in the middle of a crisis.”

“Enjolras, just because _you_ have a crisis doesn’t mean you have to drag the whole city down with you.”

“First of all, yes, I do.” Combeferre rolls her eyes even though she knows well that he can’t see her.  “And second of all, this time, it’s the opposite way around.  There’s a problem with the budget – namely, we have no budget, because we’re bankrupt.  Do you know what that means, Combeferre?”

“No,  please tell me.”  Combeferre takes a bite of her apple.

“It means no Master Plan!  No new park!  No running our departments!  We have failed our citizens, Ferre.  Failed them!  And this means I’ll never be able to build your park, after how hard we’ve been working for years --”

“Enjolras, calm down,” Combeferre says.  “You’ll figure something out.  It’ll all be fine.  Really.”

“How do you _know_ that – oh, wait, gotta go, the auditors are here.”  The connection severs with a sharp click, leaving Combeferre to settle in, lean back, and take out her book.  She knows this can’t be anything _too_ serious – if it was, Enjolras would have come to rant to her in person.

* * *

“Pawnee Department of Parks and Recreation!” someone shouts.

In the doorway to the department is possibly the most enthusiastic woman Enjolras has ever seen.  She could be a hummingbird on steroids, if hummingbirds had golden-brown skin, wide, dark eyes, and frizzy hair desperately trying to escape the bun on the back of her head.  She wears a blue blazer, skirt, and heels as though they’re jogging clothes – even though her heels are practically six inches tall, she’s somehow bouncing up and down.  It’s very impressive in a way that’s also vaguely terrifying.

Next to the bouncy woman is a man who looks like someone just told him that recess is cancelled forever.  He’s glowering at the Parks department, green eyes surveying all they can reach and finding it distasteful.  He has on a green blazer, white shirt (no tie), and blue jeans, the pockets of which his hands appear to be glued to.  His dark hair is unkempt and his chin is showing clear signs of stubble.  Enjolras hates him almost immediately.

“Hello, wonderful workers!” Bouncy Woman exclaims.  “I’m Courfeyrac, and this is my partner, Grantaire.”  Grantaire gives a compulsory nod.  “I want all of you to understand that we are not here to fire you.  We are not here to cancel your dream projects.  We are not here to pick off the least fit so that the species can evolve faster.  No, we’re just here to play with the budget.  Tweak it, if you will.  Alter it in a completely painless manner ...”

Courfeyrac continues in much the same vein for a few minutes, the cheerful (and somehow sincere) grin never wavering.  She leaves the department with a smile and a wave, and leaves Enjolras with a much better feeling about the whole budget crisis ordeal.

And then, Grantaire steps forward.  “Alright, guys, we’re probably going to need to cut this department in half.”

“ _What?_ ” Enjolras squawks.  (He’s been doing a surprisingly significant amount of that today.)  “But your partner just said –”

“Yeah, Courfeyrac’s just being nice.”  Grantaire pushes Enjolras aside to make space, then heads for the Parks Department’s conference room without a glance sideways.  “She says these lovely things, makes people feel all warm and fuzzy.  That’s her job.  Then I come in, give people all the real information, and let most of them hate me.  That’s _my_ job.”

“So your job here and now is ... What, exactly?” Enjolras asks, hurrying after Grantaire into the conference room.

“Figure out how to halve the cost of your department by any means necessary,” Grantaire answers matter-of-factly.

Enjolras makes a spluttering noise, then falls silent.  Bahorel grins.  “Can I watch?”

* * *

“So, tell me about this department,” Grantaire says.  He takes a pad of lined paper, a pen, and a file marked “PARKS” from his briefcase and sets them down on the conference table.

“Well, it’s the greatest department in Pawnee, which is the greatest city in America, possibly the world,” Enjolras replies quickly.  “The services it provides are above and beyond anything the other departments could dream of -- not that they aren’t competent, of course, just that we’re better.”

Grantaire looks out the conference room window at the department in question, trying to see what might make it so exceptional.  All he sees is a few government employees going about business as usual, occasionally stealing concerned glances at the proceedings in the conference room.

“Don’t listen to him,” Bahorel interrupts once he’s had enough of Enjolras expounding upon the Parks department’s virtues.  (Five minutes is six minutes too long.)  “This department is just like any other: a blood-sucking leech preying on innocent, hardworking taxpayers.”

Grantaire stares from Head to Deputy Head, then shakes his own.  “Well, okay, then.  Let’s talk staff.  What can you tell me about ...”  He glances down at his file.  “Marius Pontmercy?”

“Oh, you can’t fire _him_ ,” Enjolras says.  “He’s one of our best.  Beloved by everyone here.  If you fired him, there would be a riot.”

As they glance out the conference room window, Marius somehow manages to simultaneously staple a file to his palm and bang his leg on the corner of his desk.

“Look, you can’t tell me that every single person in this department is invaluable,” Grantaire says, turning to Enjolras.  “That’s, frankly, very hard to believe.  And even if it was true, we’d still have to make cuts.  The situation here is much worse than Courfeyrac and I thought it would be – we might even have to enforce a government shutdown”

At that, Bahorel closes his eyes and grins like a man from the Arctic standing outside on the first day of spring.

“You can’t do that!” Enjolras exclaims.  “What will the city do without its government?”

“I guess it’ll just have to deal,” Grantaire replies sarcastically.  “And if you guys won’t help me with this, I’ll have to figure it out from reading through files myself.  Thanks for your help -- it was very beneficial.”

With that, the auditor stands, collects his things, and heads out of the Parks department.  He doesn’t even have the courtesy to close the door as he goes.

* * *

The next time Combeferre goes on break, she only has one unheard message.  She listens to it right away, barely even remembering to take her gloves off.  (If Enjolras leaves ten messages, it’s normal.  If he leaves _one_ , it could actually be a crisis.)

_“Combeferre!  I talked to the auditors, and one of them – this guy Grantaire – is such a prick.  He doesn’t see any value human lives, Combeferre – can you imagine?  He was talking about cutting people like they were dead trees.  It’s despicable.  And you know what?  I’m going to go down there to the city manager’s office and tell him just that.  Someone needs to help him get the spiked stick out of his butt – it might as well be me.  Ferre, I’m taking your inability to answer this as unwavering support.  Thank you for being such an amazing friend.”_

Combeferre tries calling Enjolras back four times, all to no avail.  If a patient didn’t come in puking up three Paunch Burger specials, she probably would’ve rushed over to City Hall herself.

* * *

Grantaire loves starting in new towns.  He’s got a brand new hotel room, he isn’t sick of any co-workers, and there’s a whole host of new challenging accountant problems just waiting to be solved.  And, best of all, nobody hates him yet.

“Excuse me.”  A man barges into the room, icy blue eyes flashing like a new, more powerful kind of lightning.  Grantaire quickly recognizes the painfully hot idiot from the Parks department, and narrows his eyes in preparation for the confrontation he’s sure is coming.  “I’m sorry, am I interrupting your daily ritual of drinking milkshakes made from the blood of orphaned children?”

“You don’t sound --” Grantaire starts to say.  But he can’t get far into his rebuttal before the other man -- Enjolras, he remembers -- cuts in.

“Sound very sorry?  Oh, yeah, maybe because _that’s essentially what you’re doing_.  By cutting department programs, you are depriving this town and its citizens of their very lifeblood.  You are taking away their freedom to enjoy the beauty of nature, or lean from our recreational programs, or –”

“Wait, you really think people _care_ about that stuff?”  Grantaire’s eyes widen incredulously – he’s never met a bureaucrat as passionate as this one before.

Enjolras scowls at him.  “And you don’t?”

“Well, I mean, why would I?”  Grantaire tries very hard to suppress a laugh.  “People in this town – or in any town, really – just care about their giant burgers and their shitty TV shows.  They don’t care about your precious department, so why should I?”

“Because we can change things!  We can improve people’s lives!”  Enjolras is fuming – like a dragon about to burn down an entire village in one go.

Grantaire has to laugh now.  “The only thing you can change is where people take their dogs to take shits.”

Enjolras stands and points an index finger directly at Grantaire.  “You are a heartless bourgeois bastard with no respect for people or communities.  You can crawl back to whichever disgusting hole in the wall you came from – I will _not_ allow your defeatist attitude to destroy this city or my friends.  Good day.”

He strides out of the office and slams the door behind him, leaving Grantaire to wonder if a hurricane just tore through.

Okay, so, _almost_ nobody hates him yet.

* * *

Enjolras is stewing at his desk, coming up with unrealistic plans to bribe Grantaire into letting the Parks department stay as it is, when Jehan shows up.

Jehan Prouvaire is something of an enigma to the Parks department.  Everyone knows that they’re a poet, they’re Eponine’s roommate (and probably friend), and they wear the ugliest sweaters known to mankind – but nobody knows what they actually do for a living.  Unless occasionally graffiting poetry and flowers onto park benches and sidewalks counts as a job, which they doubt.  Nobody understands their poetry, either – not even Eponine, or so she claims.  And for a while, Bahorel kept asking what gender they were until Enjolras wrote up a petition declaring that, “Jehan Prouvaire is not a man or a woman but a POET” and got the rest of the department to sign it.

Once or twice a week, Jehan shows up at City Hall to have lunch with Eponine, usually because Eponine wakes up so late that she forgets to pack herself one and she doesn’t eat food from the cafeteria on the grounds that it’s poisoned.  Today, however, Jehan also has an announcement.

“Hey, everyone!” Jehan says, cheerily waving.  Joly waves back, Enjolras nods (still pouting), and Bahorel pretends not to notice.  “I’d like to invite all of you to Eponine’s birthday party tonight at the Corinthe.  She forgot the invitations, so I have them!”

They walk through the department, handing out invitations.  They’re shaped like daisies, with Eponine’s face in the middle and a piece of information about the party on each petal.

“Eponine!  You didn’t tell us it was your birthday,” Enjolras exclaims, crisis momentarily forgotten in the wake of a new birthday present challenge.

Eponine looks up from her computer, which she was using to scroll through Halloween decoration websites.  (She needs a new KEEP OUT sign for her room.)  “Yeah, that’s because I didn’t want you to know,” she says.

Jehan takes a momentary break from passing out invitations to poke their roommate in the arm.  “Sure you don’t,” they say, grinning.

Eponine just scowls.  Her scowl isn’t quite as good as Enjolras’, but she’s getting there.

“ you guys should all come because it’s at the Corinthe,” Joly shouts, waving his invitation in the air.  “You know, that bar that Bossuet and I own shares of?”

“Do we get free drinks if we do?” Bahorel asks.

“I’d have to ask Musichetta, but you can probably get a discount,” Bossuet replies.

Bahorel nods appreciatively.  “Good enough.”

“Hey, what’s new in Parks and Rec?” Courfeyrac shouts from the doorway.  “There’s a very good aura coming from this place.”

“Eponine Thenardier is turning twenty-one and everyone’s invited to her party!”  Jehan rushes back to the doorway to hand Courfeyrac an invitation.

Courfeyrac looks at it carefully, as though it’s a priceless historical artifact and not some piece of construction paper taped together.  “This is _literally_ the best invitation I have ever received, and I would be so honored to attend.  Thank you so much.  Also, I _love_ your sweater.”

Jehan smiles and curtsies.  “Thanks!”

“They don’t even go here!” Eponine hollers from her desk.

“They’re still a valuable contributor to this team!” Courfeyrac hollers back.  “Oh, and I just came over here to let you guys know that we are making great progress on the budget crisis!  More updates as they come!  Keep up the great work!”

Courfeyrac makes finger guns at the Parks team, then jogs off down the hall.  How she manages to jog in high heels, nobody knows.  They debate the question for the next half hour, and the best answer anyone can come up with is Jehan’s suggestion that her excess of positive energy has given her magical powers of some kind.

* * *

“Grantaire!”  Courfeyrac announces her presence in the city manager’s office with an enthusiastic shout and a wide grin.  “How’s my favorite state auditor?  Finding new and creative solutions to the city’s problems?”

Grantaire looks up from the file he’s reading through and shrugs.  “Not really.  I’ve still got like a hundred pages of budget analysis to read.”

“Well, you’ll get through it!  I have faith in you!” Courfeyrac does her famous finger guns at Grantaire, then sits down next to him.  “I went around to all of the departments, and most people are doing what they can to keep essential services up and running.  Oh, and I got invited to a birthday party!”

“Really?” Grantaire asks.  “Already?  That doesn’t usually happen until at least week three.”

“I know!” Courfeyrac exclaims.  “The people here are so friendly and welcoming!  I love this town!”

Grantaire rolls his eyes – Courfeyrac says the same thing about all the towns they visit.  Grantaire loves her, but he’d be the first to admit that there’s such a thing as too much positivity.

“The party’s for one of the Parks employees, at this bar called the Corinthe,” Courfeyrac goes on.  “You should come, it’ll be fun.”

“Parks and Rec?” Grantaire repeats.  “I don’t know.  The deputy director there really hates me.”

“Already?” Courfeyrac asks.

Grantaire shrugs.

“Well, you know what?  That gives you all the more reason to go.  You can talk to this guy – or girl, or whomever –”

“Guy,” Grantaire says.  “Enjolras.”

“You can talk to this Enjolras, make a connection, and then maybe he won’t hate you!” Courfeyrac grins and puts her arm around Grantaire.  “Great, right?”

“I don’t know,” Grantaire replies, shrugging off the arm.  “He seemed pretty convinced that I’m a terrible person.”

“Then convince him otherwise!” Courfeyrac says.  “And if you go, I’ll buy you three drinks.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow.  “Eight.”

“Five.”

“Okay, deal.”

* * *

“You need to apologize.”  Combeferre sits down next to Enjolras at a table near the back of the bar, glass of wine in her hand.  The Corinthe is packed – unusually so for a Wednesday night, but Jehan apparently invited half the town to Eponine’s birthday party, and a surprising amount of people actually showed up.  Between the loud rock music and the constant commotion of people, it’s almost impossible to hear anything spoken at normal, conversational volume.  But Combeferre has many gifts, one of those being a voice that can cut through anything, so Enjolras hears her perfectly.

“Apologize?” he asks.  “To whom?  For what?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know,” Combeferre replies.  “I heard that message you left me.  That auditor is just doing his job, and he didn’t deserve to be yelled at.  You probably terrified the guy.”

“I didn’t!” Enjolras argues.  He takes a sip of his drink – a margarita, because they always make him feel better for some reason – and glares at Combeferre.  “He just told me I was stupid and idealistic!”

“Still, you should go talk to him again tomorrow and apologize,” Combeferre says.  “Or at least send him an email.  You were too harsh on him, and besides, there’s no way the Parks department can keep its budget if you piss off one of the people in charge of it.”

Enjolras stares at Combeferre for a few seconds.  Combeferre stares back, cold and unflinching.  Enjolras sighs. “You’re right, as always, and --” He startles, gaze directed behind Combeferre’s head. “-- _shit_.”

“What?”  Combeferre looks around the bar, completely failing to spot anything out of the ordinary.  (Well, Musichetta, one of the baristas -- and also girlfriend, of either Joly, Bossuet, or both of them, Combeferre isn’t sure -- is wearing a new dress, but that’s not something Enjolras is likely to notice.)

“He’s _here_.  Why is he _here_?”  Enjolras tries to simultaneously hide his face with his hand and point out someone to Combeferre – or tries to.

“He ... You mean, the auditor?” Combeferre asks.

Enjolras nods, still hiding and pointing.  Combeferre glances in the direction he’s indicating and sees a dark-haired man with a bottle in one hand laughing with a pretty (shit, _very_ pretty) woman in incredibly high heels.

“Okay, then,” Combeferre says, ignoring the presence of the _very pretty woman_ for now.  “This is your chance.  Go apologize!”

“But I don’t want to,” Enjolras whines.  He puts his head down on the table and looks up with very wide eyes.  “Do I _have_ to?  Combe _ferre_!”

It’s a tactic that would work on anyone besides Combeferre – she’s immune.  “I’m not talking to you until you apologize,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Fine.”  Enjolras stands, lurches from side to side a little (even after two drinks, he’s starting to lose motor control), and makes his way over to Grantaire’s table.  Combeferre watches as he says something to Grantaire, his best Political Correctness face plastered on.  Grantaire replies, mouth curving up in a half-sinister, half-mocking grin.  Enjolras’ eyes narrow.  Grantaire raises an eyebrow.  And, yep, now they’re definitely shouting.  Combeferre can’t hear what they’re saying from where she’s sitting, but she can tell it’s ugly.

(The _very pretty woman_ notices Combeferre watching the confrontation and gives her a smile and a wave.  Her smile is ridiculously beautiful -- Combeferre can’t help blushing as she smiles back.)

Enjolras stomps back over a minute later, face bright red and hands clenched into fists.

“So, did you apologize?” Combeferre asks.

“I tried to,” Enjolras says.  “I really did.  But he’s a horrible person, Combeferre.  You just can’t apologize to someone like that!”  Enjolras sits down, then slumps forward, putting his face in his arms.  “But now there’s no way he’ll give Parks any money at all.  I’ve ruined us, Ferre.  I’ve ruined everything!”

Combeferre pats her friend on the head.  “You’ll fix it eventually.  I have faith in you.”

“You do?” Enjolras asks, voice muffled.

“Of course I do.  But don’t try anything today, you’re too drunk.”

“More like not drunk enough.”  Enjolras sits up.  He puts a hand on Combeferre’s arm imploringly.  “Drink with me, Ferre.”

Combeferre can resist Enjolras’ convincing tactics, but sometimes she chooses not to.  “Sure.”

* * *

“So, how’s your birthday going?” Jehan asks, sitting down next to Eponine at the bar.

Eponine shrugs, then reaches up and pulls the flower crown Jehan made for the occasion off of her head.  “It could be better.  I mean, there are definitely way more people here than I wanted, and somehow Marius still didn’t show.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”  Jehan puts their arm around Eponine.  Her shoulders are cold, exposed as they are in her strapless dress.  (She should’ve brought a sweater.)  “But hey, at least you can drink legally now, right?”

“I guess,” Eponine says.  “But I think now that it’s legal, it’s not really fun.”

“I get that.”  Jehan nods.  “But wait – I have something that will definitely make you feel better.  Here.”  They reach into their pocket and pull out a carefully folded piece of paper, which they hand to Eponine.  “I wrote you a poem about you as the goddess of death.”

Eponine reads it twice, a smile breaking out on her face despite her best intentions.  “I love it, thank you.”

Jehan grins.  “You are so welcome.”

“And hey!” she exclaims.  “There’s this budget crisis now, so the government might get shut down and Enjolras might get really, really pissed – that’s always funny to watch.  I’m cool with that as my birthday present from the universe.”

“That’s the spirit!” Jehan says.  They then take the opportunity to bring out some of their favorite ghost puns, which are, as always, equal parts hilarious and awful.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to come say hi (or yell at me to work on the next chapter, because I probably should) on [tumblr](http://gratuitytuccci.tumblr.com/). :)


	2. Freddy Spaghetti

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to everyone who's been reading so far! enjoy chapter two. (and no, I cannot promise that every chapter will be this long or include courferre this ridiculous.)

Courfeyrac is about to leave the bar and head for her new home (the Pawnee Hilton) when she notices someone sitting with their face down on the bar.  Upon closer inspection, it’s clear that the person is the same woman Enjolras was sitting and drinking with earlier.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac says, poking the woman in the arm.  “Is everything okay?”

The woman sits up and stares groggily at Courfeyrac.  After a moment, her face lights up and she says,  “Did you know that there are over a hundred and fifty thousand species of moths?  Science doesn’t even have an exact number, because we’re still discovering new ones.  Don’t you think that’s amazing?  That a creature so small, a creature so many take for granted, is so diverse and fascinating?  I think so.  I think moths are beautiful.  I think your face is beautiful.”

Courfeyrac isn’t really sure how to respond to any of that.  (Well, that’s not entirely true.  She wants to say, _I think_ your _face is beautiful_ , but that might not be the wisest idea.)  She wasn’t able to see before, through the dark, crowded bar, but now it’s easy to tell that this woman is something else.  With her ebony skin, dark eyes, and regal features, she looks like some kind of ancient queen – a queen that thousands of soldiers would follow into battle.  Courfeyrac is captivated.

“Hey,” the woman says.  She puts an arm out and grabs onto Courfeyrac’s shoulder for support, which she then uses to stagger into a standing position.  “Dance with me.”

“I’m not sure you’re in a good position to –” Courfeyrac starts to say.  But the woman is already pulling her out into an open space in the bar, and even though Courfeyrac is strong enough to end this if she wanted to, she’s just going to let it happen.

There’s an old Jason Mraz song playing, slow beat and lilting melody.  The woman puts her hands on Courfeyrac’s hips – sending a tingling feeling up her spine – and Courfeyrac places her own hands on top of them, to steady her.  The world contracts, in and in until nothing matters outside of this, this dance, this meeting.

“What’s your name?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Combe – Combeferre,” the woman – Combeferre – stutters.  She drops her head onto Courfeyrac’s shoulder, even though she’s taller by at least a couple of inches.  “Did you know that – that oxygen and potassium went on a date?”

Courfeyrac isn’t sure what that has to do with anything, but she goes with it.  “I didn’t.”

“Yeah, it went okay,” Combeferre says into Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

After a few seconds, she picks her head up, looks Courfeyrac right in the eye, and adds, “ _You’re_ okay.  More than okay.  You’re amazing.”

And then, without any warning, she tilts her head and kisses Courfeyrac full on the mouth.

Courfeyrac goes through several phases in the course of about two seconds: shock, joy, enthusiastic response, realization of what a mistake this is, and denial.  Combeferre frowns at her when she pulls away – and, okay, that’s really not fair.

“Look, you’re pretty great yourself, alright?” Courfeyrac tells her.  “But right now, you’re drunk, and you need to get home.  I’ll drive you.”

She puts an arm around Combeferre and starts leading her in the direction of the door.

“Don’t trust atoms,” Combeferre informs her.  “They make up everything.”

* * *

The next morning, Bahorel arrives at the office to find Enjolras slumped over his desk.

“Long night?” he asks.

Enjolras groans and mutters something indecipherable, then reaches for his coffee on the other side of the desk.  He has to sit up in order to drink it – a fact he doesn’t accept easily, taking quite a few seconds to struggle into an upright position.  But the coffee, once he’s able to drink it, does seem to have some rejuvenating powers.

Bahorel shakes his head, mildly sympathetic.  “And here I thought you were too smart to get drunk on weekdays.”

“I’m the opposite of too smart,” Enjolras replies.  “I’ve done something stupid, and now I’m going to lose my job for it, and our entire department will be defunded, and the parks will be in more terrible condition than they already are, all because of the aggravating idiot now in charge of the entire city’s budget.”

Bahorel considers that statement for a moment, then asks, “And you’re completely certain of that?”

Enjolras looks at him, surprised.  “Yes?  I mean, I thought that would be good news to you?”

“Of course, I hope that this budget crisis can help our government realize that less pointless programs and a return to a more simplistic system is the way to go,” Bahorel says. “But cutting certain areas more than others just because the person in charge holds a grudge is wrong.  Completely unfair.  Things like this should be done as apathetically as possible.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Enjolras asks.

“Go talk to the man,” Bahorel tells him.  “Try to be civil.  Compromise may be a sign of weakness, but so is allowing your anger to get the better of you.”

Enjolras sighs.  He and Bahorel disagree on so much – and have ever since Enjolras was hired a couple of years ago – but somehow, they always manage to be on the same page when it’s really important.  Enjolras has to admit that, despite his antiquated ideas of how government should work, Bahorel’s strong sense of right and wrong is incredibly grounding, like a root tethering him to the earth.

“I will,” Enjolras says.  “Just as soon as I finish my coffee.”

“Good.”  Bahorel briefly pats Enjolras on the back, then heads into his office.

* * *

Grantaire is almost a quarter of the way through the files he needs to read when he hears two knocks on his office door.

“Yeah?” he calls.

The person steps inside -- and it’s Enjolras.  Again.  Seriously, if Grantaire had known he’d be seeing this much of a man both unfairly attractive and unfairly angry with him, he might have refused this job.

Enjolras steps inside slowly, then stands in the doorway for a few seconds.  He looks down at his shoes (brown, comfortable – nothing Grantaire would ever wear), looks back up at Grantaire, and clears his throat.

“Hi.  I’m just here to ... Well, I’m here to ...”

“Apologize?” Grantaire suggests.  He resists the smirk threatening to creep over his face.

Enjolras nods.  “To apologize for my apology, if you will.  I didn’t exactly have a clear head last night, and I was still angry about the recent situation with the city’s budget.  I unfairly took my anger out on you, and for that, I’m sorry.  I understand that you’re just doing your job, much as I resent what doing your job entails.”

Grantaire considers the apology for a moment – it’s not bad, as apologies go – and then says, “Yeah, I’m still slashing the entire Parks budget.”

“What?”  Enjolras’ face goes red, and he takes a couple of steps forward, raising his right fist.  Grantaire suddenly feels like the antagonist in an old Western film, about to get his lights punched out.  It’s vaguely terrifying.  (And somehow also vaguely arousing?  Oh, no.)

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he says quickly, grinning and raising his hands in mock surrender.  “I’ll take from each department fairly, with reasonable motivations.  Apology accepted and everything.”

Enjolras steps back, but he still eyes Grantaire with trepidation, as though not quite sure he can trust the auditor.  (Not that Grantaire blames him.)

“Just go back to your office, I’ll let you know when Courf and I are ready to announce a plan,” Grantaire tells him.

Enjolras follows the suggestion, but not without turning and giving Grantaire one last glare.  He doesn’t mouth, _I’ll be watching you,_ but it’s a close thing.

Grantaire sighs.  Stupid Parks department employees, with their stupid blond hair and their stupid piercing eyes and their stupid turning Grantaire on when they get mad at him.

* * *

“Grantaire!”

At his next interruption, Grantaire is a third of the way through his reading assignment and starting to forget what he read earlier that morning.

“Hey, Courf,” he says, stretching back in his chair.  “What’s up?”

“Well, I’ve talked to all the – departments,” Courfeyrac begins.  She bends into a squat between every few words.  (Staying in shape is very important to Courfeyrac, so she tries to get some exercise in at every possible opportunity.)  “Most of them were – completely unaware of the looming crisis, so – they continued spending as normal – which only caused the problem to get worse.”  Courfeyrac stands all the way up.  “There’s currently enough money left in the budget to run the government for about a week, and then there’d be nothing – can’t pay employees, can’t run programs, can’t do anything.  We’re entirely in the black.”

“So, what you’re saying is: government shutdown,” Grantaire summarizes.

Courfeyrac sighs.  “Do we have to?”

“Unless Pawnee is home to some kind of magical money tree I didn’t know about, then yeah, we have to.”

“I hate government shutdowns,” Courfeyrac says, plopping down across the desk from Grantaire.  “They’re always so sad, you know?  But you’re right.  We need time to get loans and figure out how to reallocate the funds .”

“How do you want to announce it?” Grantaire asks.  “Hold a giant meeting and say, ‘You’re sunk, suckers, enjoy a few weeks of unemployment’?”

“No, Grantaire, you know we can’t do that,” Courfeyrac chastises him.  “We have to meet with the departments individually.  That’s more fair.”

Now it’s Grantaire’s turn to sigh.  “But that takes so long!”

“But it’s fair,” Courfeyrac says.  “Now, set up the meetings.  One every half hour, starting in ten minutes.  I’ll be back momentarily.

She gets up and jogs out of the office.

Grantaire watches her go for a moment, sighs again, and picks up the phone.

* * *

Combeferre arrives at City Hall at lunch time to find the Parks department in a state of quiet panic.  Enjolras is skimming through old record books at a possibly inhuman speed.  Joly is asking Bossuet if everything will be okay every few seconds, and Bossuet is answering that he doesn’t know and suspense like this is the reason he’s bald at twenty-seven.  Bahorel is picking up pieces of furniture and putting them down inches away from their previous locations.  Marius is frantically stapling together any loose stack of papers he can find.  The only person who seems unperturbed is Eponine, carefully giving her nails a fresh coat of black polish.

“What’s going on?” Combeferre asks.

“The auditors have been meeting with different departments separately all morning,” Enjolras says.  He slams his book closed and stands up.  “We don’t know why, but rumor is, it’s bad news – as in, we might be going into government shutdown.”

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Combeferre replies distractedly.  She scans the Parks department as though intently looking for something.

“Ferre?” Enjolras asks.  He’s standing next to her – when did he get there?  “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”  Combeferre smiles, but she still seems not fine somehow – her cool, calculated facade has been knocked ever so slightly off its axis, and Enjolras can tell.  Enjolras can always tell.

“Hey, walk with me.”  Enjolras grabs Combeferre’s arm and heads in the direction of the city manager’s office – the Parks meeting starts soon anyway.  Combeferre turns to give the Parks department another once-over.

“Seriously, what’s going on?” Enjolras asks.

Combeferre holds out for another few seconds, but to no avail.  Enjolras will squeeze her arm until she confesses – he’s done it before.

“Fine,” she finally says.  “I think I made out with someone last night.”

“You – wait – _think_?” Enjolras exclaims.  Combeferre glares at him.

“You _think_?” he repeats in a whisper.  “Meaning you don’t know for sure?”

“Last night, I got pretty drunk – which, in retrospect, was clearly a mistake,” Combeferre explains.  “And when I woke up this morning with the worst hangover I’ve had since college, my car wasn’t in the driveway, I couldn’t find my phone, and I had the distinct feeling of having kissed someone.”

“So whoever it was at least had the decency to bring you home,” Enjolras reasons.  “That’s something.”

“I guess.  But – ”  Combeferre lowers her voice even further.  “I think it was somebody I know.”

“Who?” Enjolras asks, eyes wide.

“I can’t remember, that’s the problem.”

“Hey, what’re you ladies gossiping about?” Bahorel says, coming up from behind them.  He ignores Enjolras’ glare, passes, then turns around to add, “Wild night last night, huh, Combeferre?  I never realized you were such a lightweight.”

He goes on ahead, whistling cheerily.  Enjolras and Combeferre stare at each other.

“Could it be ...?” Enjolras trails off.

Combeferre shakes her head.  “Definitely not.”  But she doesn’t seem too convinced.

The remainder of their walk to the city manager’s office is divided between Enjolras listing names of people he knows and Combeferre shaking her head at each.  By the time they get there, the list has been exhausted, but no culprit has been found.  Both friends step into the office distracted, hoping their co-workers don’t notice.

And then, Courfeyrac sees them.

“Combeferre!” she exclaims.  She points a grin and double finger-guns at the doctor in question.

“How does she know your name?” Enjolras whispers.

Combeferre starts to shake her head in confusion – but then, it all comes rushing back.  The dancing, the chemistry puns, the kiss … the _kiss._  Combeferre brings her hand slowly to her forehead and leaves it there for a few seconds.  She wishes it could stay there forever – everything would be easier that way.  But alas, she has to face the world.  (With smudged glasses, apparently, since she forgot she was wearing those before she put her hand on her face.)

The _very pretty woman_ – God, Combeferre doesn’t even know her _name_ – is still smiling at her.  The smile is somehow prettier than Combeferre remembers.

“Thank you,” she says, trying to regain some of her composure. “For driving me home last night.”

“Oh, it was my pleasure,” the _very pretty woman_ replies.  “Last night was wonderful.  We should do it again sometime – when you’re more sober, of course.  I’ll call you.”

 _Call me?_  “You have my phone number?” Combeferre asks.  This whole thing is getting worse and worse by the second.

“No, but I do have your phone.”  The _very pretty woman_ reaches into her jacket pocket and takes out Combeferre’s phone, which she holds out.

Combeferre takes it.  “Oh.  Thank you for that, too, then.”

“You’re welcome.”

For a few moments, awkward silence permeates through the room.  Then, suddenly, Combeferre’s phone buzzes.

_Pawnee Medical Center: You are needed on an urgent case ..._

Combeferre has never been happier to get a summons from the hospital in her life.  She makes a quick excuse, then speed-walks out of the office and down the hallway.  If she was going any faster, it could easily be called fleeing.

“Lovely woman,” Courfeyrac muses, watching Combeferre go.

The Parks department stays silent, somewhat in awe of the whole thing.  Enjolras is mentally preparing what he’ll say to Combeferre when they have a Talk later.

“Anyway,” Courfeyrac goes on, “the reason we called your department in here is because we need to deliver some news.  Don’t see it as bad news.  See it as an invitation to reinvent your lives.  Go after new passions.  Find solutions to problems you’ve been procrastinating on for years.  All endings have the potential to be beginnings, if you let them.”  She turns to Grantaire.

“Yeah, so, we’re enforcing a government shutdown,” Grantaire says.

There’s a chorus of “No!”s and “Do you have to?”s, most of them coming from Enjolras, but it dies down fairly quickly.

“I wish we didn’t have to do this,” Courfeyrac tells them.

“But we do,” Grantaire says.  “We need time to get more money in the budget, and to make that budget work for the town so that something like this doesn’t happen again.  As of now, all government activities are shut down – that means all programs, all services, everything nonessential.  You guys are, for all intents and purposes, unemployed for at least the next few weeks.”

Everyone looks to Enjolras, waiting to see how he’ll take this.  One of Enjolras’ hands curls into a fist for a second, but he resists, and eventually nods.  The other Parks employees nod in suit.  It’s an oddly somber occasion, like a funeral for a distant relative -- the sadness is part perfunctory, part sympathetic.

And then, someone pipes up.  “Wait!” Joly exclaims.  “What about Freddy Spaghetti?”

“Freddy Spaghetti?” Grantaire repeats.

“He’s a performer who does music for kids,” Joly says.  “Once a year, the Parks department brings him to Pawnee and he puts on a free concert.  This year’s concert is supposed to be tomorrow afternoon.  Does it have to be cancelled?”

“Yes,” Grantaire replies.

Joly’s face falls.  Bosset pats his arm sympathetically.

“Is there really nothing you can do?” Enjolras asks.

“Grantaire, is there really nothing we can do?” Courfeyrac asks.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Grantaire says.

Courfeyrac shrugs.  “Well, that’s it.  I’m sorry, guys.  I really am.”

She adds something about going to get lunch, then jogs out of the office.

All the people of the Parks department file out silently, their heads down.  Well, all but one.  Enjolras stays – hands on hips and eyebrows dangerously furrowed.

“What?” Grantaire asks.  “Do you have a question we didn’t answer earlier?”

“I have a concern.”  Enjolras takes a step forward.  “Freddy Spaghetti.”

“That concert we’re cancelling?  What about it?”

“You can’t just do this,” Enjolras says, the tone of his voice rising like a cresting wave crashing into the shore.  “You can’t just cancel Freddy Spaghetti.  He comes every year, the kids look forward to it so much –”

“We’re shutting down all government operations,” Grantaire interrupts.  “No exceptions.”

Enjolras raises his index finger, ready to raise some serious hell – but before he can, Grantaire asks, “Hey, want to get a drink?”

The index finger lowers slowly, almost painstakingly.  Its owner stares at Grantaire, confusion plain in wide, blue eyes.  “What?”

Grantaire shrugs.  “You look like you could use a drink.  I’m offering to buy you one.”

“But it’s the middle of the day.  And we have work.”

“ _You_ don’t.  Not anymore,” Grantaire argues.  “And I do, but I’ve got at least a month to do it.  I can procrastinate a little.  So, what do you say?”

Enjolras stares at Grantaire for another few seconds – Grantaire feels like a desert landscape slowly baking beneath a hot sun.

But then, something imperceptible changes in Enjolras’ gaze, and he says, “Okay, sure.”

Grantaire grins.  “Fantastic.”

* * *

The drive over to the Corinthe is silent save for the occasional comment by Enjolras, pointing out some town landmark or other that he believes is incredibly significant to the country, if not the world.  The man is kind of insane, but he clearly cares a lot about his town, Grantaire will give him that.

Once they get to the bar – much emptier now than it was the previous night – their conversation turns to small talk.  The weather, the sports neither of them watch, the funny thing Marius did that morning – nothing extraordinary.  It feels strangely like a first date, which Grantaire privately finds vaguely ridiculous, as there’s no way someone like Enjolras would ever want to go on a date with someone like him.

A couple minutes into their small talk, the barista Grantaire met last night – he thinks her name is Musichetta – emerges from the back and slides into place behind the bar.  “So, are you boys making up or making out?” she asks with a cat-like grin.

“What?” Grantaire asks.  And, nearly simultaneously, Enjolras retorts, “Excuse me?”

Musichetta laughs.  “Come on, everyone saw your fight last night.  Clearly you’re here to settle things one way or another.”

Grantaire glances at Enjolras, who appears to be turning faintly red in a way that’s more embarrassed than pissed off.  That’s something, right?

“We’re just two friendly government employees looking to get to know each other,” Grantaire says, turning back to Musichetta.  “And what better way to do that than with the help of alcohol?”

Musichetta gives him a grin and a thumbs-up.  Enjolras just rolls his eyes.

“Two beers, please,” Grantaire requests.  “Whatever you’ve got on tap.”

For a moment, Enjolras looks like he wants to protest the order – he seems like more of an expensive wine guy than a beer guy, it’s true – but once Musichetta brings the drinks out, he takes a drink without a word of disapproval.  Grantaire has always said, alcohol may not be able to solve all problems, but it can put a dent in at least ninety percent of them.

After drinking silently for a minute or two, Grantaire starts to ask Enjolras something at the same time as Enjolras tries to do the same.  They stop, wait, and then it happens again.  Eventually, to put an end to the madness, Grantaire gestures politely at Enjolras as though to say, “You go first.”

“So, ah, how did you get into auditing for the state government?” Enjolras asks.  “Did you always want to be a destroyer of innocent people’s dreams when you grew up, or was that something that you developed later?  He pauses, realizing how rude he’s being.  “Sorry.”

Grantaire waves it off – he can tell that insult wasn’t as sincere as others he’s heard from the man.  (And besides, he’d rather be insulted by Enjolras than complemented by so many other men.)

“Actually, I started my career in local government, if you can believe it,” he says, taking a drink of his beer.  “When I was eighteen, I ran for mayor as a joke.  Didn’t think anyone would really vote for me.  But I guess there was some kind of anti-establishment rebellion going around my town or something, because I actually got elected.”

Enjolras’ eyes widen.  “Wait, I think I’ve heard of you!” he exclaims.  “Aubergine Grantaire, boy mayor.”

Grantaire winces.  “Yeah, that’s why I mostly go by Grantaire now.”

“I think I had a newspaper article about you taped up in my room at one point, actually,” Enjolras remarks.  Grantaire nearly chokes on his beer.

After taking a second to recover, he asks, “Did I serve as a warning to you – this is what can happen when local government goes horribly wrong?”

“Something like that, yes,” Enjolras says.  But his gaze doesn’t quite meet Grantaire’s eyes, leaving him to wonder ... No, there’s no way.  No conceivable way.  A moment passes, and then Enjolras looks up, grinning – his smile is brilliant, that’s ten kinds of unfair – and asks, “What was that song you played at your swearing in?”

Grantaire covers his face with his hands.  “Whoomp, There it Is.”

Enjolras laughs.  “Right, of course.  And then, how long did your term last?  Remind me.”

“About five months,” Grantaire replies, still hiding behind his palms.  “I poured our entire budget into a winter sports complex called Ice Town, and it bankrupted the town.  The headline was ‘Ice Town Costs Ice Clown his Ice Crown.’”

Enjolras keeps laughing, keeps asking Grantaire questions about his less than honorable past – and normally, Grantaire hates drudging up this stuff, hates reminding himself of his horrible beginnings, but in a new place, with pretty decent beer and a more than decent guy, it’s surprisingly not that bad.

“So, is that why you turned to accounting?  Wanted to show your old town that you could be responsible?” Enjolras asks.

“Something like that,” Grantaire agrees.  “And besides, I like this job.  Moving around, meeting new people, leaving as soon as they start to really hate me ...”

Enjolras shakes his head at that.  “It seems a little lonely to me,” he says.  “Who knows?  Maybe Pawnee will be different.”

“Maybe – if you can let me do my job without questioning my every decision.”

* * *

> __  
> To: Bahorel, Eponine, Joly, Bossuet, Marius  
>  From: Enjolras  
>  Friday, 7:54 A.M.
> 
> _BE AT THE LOT BEHIND FERRE’S HOUSE RIGHT NOW._
> 
> _To: Combeferre  
>  From: Enjolras  
>  Friday, 7:55 A.M._
> 
> _Freddy Spaghetti concert moved to the lot behind your house.  Could also use your help with set-up.  Please._

* * *

“Combeferre, nobody’s here yet,” Enjolras says.  “Why is nobody here yet?”

“Well, it’s –” Combeferre glances at her watch, “– eight-oh-four, and you only told people about this ten minutes ago.  Give them time to wake up, get breakfast, and drive over here.”

Enjolras sighs.  “Combeferre, you are as wise as you are beautiful.  Which, apparently, somebody besides me has noticed,” he adds, looking accusingly at his friend.  “Can you tell me about that?”

“Well, um, I’d rather not talk about it right now,” Combeferre replies.  Enjolras narrows his eyes in response, but luckily for her, a car pulls up at the lot, parks hurriedly, and ejects one Marius Pontmercy.

“I came as soon as I got your text!” he shouts, running over to Enjolras and Combeferre.  “What’s going on?”

Enjolras mouths, _We’ll continue this later_ at Combeferre, then turns to Marius.  “Marius!  For once you actually came through and did something right!”

Marius grins.  “Well, you know, I just wanted to do the right thing for my boss, and –”

Another car pulls up, and Eponine and Jehan emerge.  “Eponine’s here!” Enjolras exclaims.  “Never mind, Marius, Eponine’s here!”

“Yeah,” Eponine says.  “Whatever.”

“I am willing to help out with anything as long as it doesn’t go against the natural flow of the universe,” Jehan contributes, raising their hand.

Marius frowns for a moment, but he quickly gets over the rejection.  He’s pretty used to it.

Within a few minutes, the entire Parks team (plus Combeferre and Jehan) has assembled in the lot behind Combeferre’s house.  The lot has a long way to go before it can achieve its dream of becoming a park, but it’s no longer the terrible, dangerous pit that it once was.  Enjolras likes to think of it as his and Combeferre’s park to be.  One day, this patch of grass will bring joy to children and adults alike, and serve as a meeting place for all members of the Pawnee community.  

But for now, it’s a pretty nice location for the Freddy Spaghetti concert.

“I was thinking about Gran – about these auditors,” Enjolras tells his teammates, “and about the government shutdown, and I realized that while we can’t do much about all of this, we can at least do one thing.  We can at least go out fighting.  We can make something great happen for the kids of Pawnee.  So, what do you say?  For the kids!” he shouts, shooting his fist into the air.

“For the kids!” the other Parks workers repeat.

“For the aliens dressed up in human child costumes in order to assimilate into and eventually take over our planet!” Eponine shouts.  Jehan gives her a high-five.

“Okay, so, here’s what we need to do,” Enjolras goes on.  “Bahorel, you need to construct a stage.  Marius can help you, but be careful he doesn’t break anything.  Eponine, start driving to go get our performer from the airport.  Try not to scare him too much, please.  Joly and Bossuet, get the word out that the concert is still going, and that it’s going to be here instead of in Ramset Park.  Combeferre, coordinate everything that needs coordinating – food, merchandise, whatever.  Jehan, help with whatever you can, I guess.  Everyone got their assignments?”

Everyone nods.  Joly gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“Okay, great,” Enjolras says, grinning.  “We’re going to make this happen.  Remember – for the kids!”

The Pawnee department of Parks and Recreation is not filled with the best, most enthusiastic workers in the world.  Most of them spend more time slacking off than not.  They get their jobs done with minimal effort, take their paychecks, and go home to complain that they wish they were doing less work, just like all employees of all governments everywhere.  But the Pawnee department of Parks and Recreation is special in one very specific way: they have Enjolras.

Enjolras is something like a beacon of local government – a beacon, or a lighthouse, or a bat signal.  When he calls, his department answers.  Most of them would never admit it, but they’d do anything for him.

And so, when he asks them to put together a Freddy Spaghetti concert in seven hours for no profit, they put together a Freddy Spaghetti concert in seven hours for no profit.  A stage is built, people are collected, and food is coordinated.  Everything comes together just in time.

Well, almost everything.

“Where is Freddy Spaghetti?” Enjolras demands.  It’s two fifty-five P.M., five minutes until the concert is supposed to start, and the audience of a couple hundred Pawnee youngsters are about to be very disappointed.

Eponine looks down at the grass.  It’s pretty nice grass – not too green, not too high, just right.  “He’s not coming,” she says quietly.

“He’s _what_?”

“When he found out we didn’t have any money to pay him ... Yeah, he bailed.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Enjolras exclaims.  “He’s a kids’ performer, he should do it for the kids!”

Eponine shrugs.  “I guess he doesn’t see it that way.”

Enjolras shakes his head.  “Well, then,” he says resolutely, “the show must go on, one way or another.  Freddy Spaghetti or no Freddy Spaghetti.”  He heads backstage, much to Eponine’s trepidation.

“What’s Enjolras doing?” Combeferre asks, coming up behind her.  “Is he going to sing?  Please tell me he’s not going to sing.”

Eponine shrugs again.

Combeferre’s eyes widen.  “Shit,” she whispers.  She runs backstage, hoping to avert the potential crisis.  Eponine watches her go, not moving from her place.  She yawns.

A few minutes later, Enjolras takes the stage despite Combeferre’s best efforts.

“Hello, kids!” he says.

The kids of Pawnee eye him nervously, like a pack of cats confronted with a new stray.

“Look, Freddy Spaghetti couldn’t make it today,” Enjolras goes on, “so I’m his cousin, Tony Rigatoni, and I’m here to sing for you in his place!  Yay!”  The ‘yay’ sounds less enthusiastic than forced.  The children can tell.

Enjolras starts to sing, “If you’re happy and you know it.”  Several kids boo.  Others make faces at the stage.  A few start to leave.  One kid even makes a rather inappropriate gesture.

Combeferre, standing backstage, puts her hands up to her face.

And then, as though sent by a sympathetic angel, a new voice is heard around the park-to-be.

“... Thanks for the introduction, Tony, but I can take it from here!  Hey, kids, you ready to _rock_?”

Freddy Spaghetti runs out on stage, arms raised like an Olympic runner sprinting through the finish line.  Enjolras gets off as quickly as he can, but not before asking, “So you’re here after all?”

The performer shrugs and says, “That guy in the green jacket paid me double to not cancel, so yeah.  Thank him.”

Enjolras looks to see who he’s pointing at and does a double-take.

Grantaire has faced some pretty terrifying things in his lifetime – bears, angry soccer moms, Courfeyrac before seven A.M. – but none of them come close to this.  Enjolras strides purposefully towards him, fire burning in his blue eyes.

“How did you know about this?”

Grantaire holds his hands up, even though he’s not really sure what he’s surrendering for.  “I just figured it out.  You wanted to hold this concert because you’re a good person, and your performer bailed because he isn’t.  It’s not rocket science.”

Enjolras stops a few inches away from Grantaire.  He still looks confused, but the terrifying factor has decreased some.  “Why did you do this?” he demands.  “You didn’t have to do this.”

Grantaire shrugs.  “Yeah, well.  Never wanted to be the kind of person who made little kids sad.  Oh, but,” he goes on, grinning, “you’re probably still going to lose your job.  Just FYI.

He walks away, hands in his pockets, leaving Enjolras staring after him.

The kids watching the concert start to cheer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> consider this your open invitation to bother me on [tumblr](http://gratuitytuccci.tumblr.com/). <3


	3. Go Big or Go Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends! I am so, so sorry this chapter is late, but I promise, it’s for good reason. let me attempt to explain: [jean ralphio voice] readers! you just missed the craziest of crazies! all-state. band. playing. brian balmages. selfie stick? concert. crying. fleeing to pennsylvania. seeing rent. hand stuck in a car door. coming home. crashing on my bed for a day because – technically I’m ex-haus-ted!
> 
> in short, I didn’t have a lot of writing time or internet access last weekend, and then schoolwork this week kept me from finishing up and posting the chapter until now. but the next chapter will be up by next weekend, and then hopefully I can get something of a schedule going.
> 
> also, I want to give shout-outs to [cassie](http://icleal.tumblr.com/) (who trombone-d majestically, watched steven universe in the bathroom with me, and at one point lent me paper and a pencil so that I could work on this fic) and to [kay](http://sheergossamer.tumblr.com/), my lovely beta (to whom you should all send nice thoughts because they're taking six AP tests, which is frankly ridiculous.)
> 
> enjoy the chapter! :)

Bahorel’s cabin is the epitome of peace and quiet.

The cabin’s location is classified – suffice it to say that in order to get there, it’s necessary to brave backroads, park a mile away, then pick your way through trip wire and pits full of sharpened stakes.  Inside its heavily fortified boundaries, the cabin has no connection to the outside world.  Heating is controlled by a wood stove, electricity by a private generator, and water by a well Bahorel built himself.  The cabin lacks phone lines, internet connections, and cell service.  All that Bahorel can hear when he gets up early in the morning to chop wood beneath the sunrise is the chirping of birds and the running of a stream somewhere nearby.  He pauses to close his eyes, raise his face to the sun, and smile – _this_ is truly what nature intended.

“Bahorel!  We’re back!”

Bahorel opens his eyes to find Enjolras sprinting towards him, binder in hand.  The man looks more jumpy than a scared rabbit, although his energy seems to come from excitement, not fear.

“How did you get this address?” Bahorel demands.

“It’s not important,” Enjolras says.  He takes his last few steps then stops, right in front of Bahorel.  “What’s important is, after three terrible months, the government shutdown is over.  We’re back!”

Bahorel groans.  “Oh, God.  Just when I was really starting to enjoy my solitude.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but solitude is over, now.  Government work begins now.  And we need to think of some way to save the Parks department.”  Enjolras grabs Bahorel’s arm and starts dragging the man in the direction of his front gate.

“You mean, _you_ need to think of some way to save the Parks department,” Bahorel mutters.  Enjolras pretends not to hear him.

* * *

And so, it comes to pass that all the members of the Pawnee Department of Parks and Recreation are rounded up from their various homes and second jobs, and brought back to their true workplace, City Hall.  They are collected, one by one, like odd souvenirs on a strange scavenger hunt.

Joly and Bossuet are found at the Corinthe, helping Musichetta restock -- and it’s lucky they get there when they do, because Bossuet is about to drop a case of beer glasses on his foot.  Eponine is found sitting in a cemetery, reading a book on Roman history -- Jehan wanted to write poetry in a cemetery and she went along to keep him company.  Marius is found at home, attempting to change a lightbulb -- you wouldn’t think it’s that difficult, but Marius somehow managed to turn off all the electricity in his apartment in the process.

* * *

At about ten o’clock in the morning, Grantaire glances out the window and discovers a veritable caravan pulling up to City Hall.  He takes a look at the participants – a red Hyundai, an old pick-up truck, a banged-up Toyota, and a tiny Smart Car – and curses under his breath.

“Hey, Courf?” he asks, louder.

“Yeah?” Courfeyrac replies from her desk across the room.

“Did you by any chance call Enjolras?”

Courfeyrac looks up, squinting in confusion.  “Maybe, why?”

Grantaire sighs and slowly lowers his head into his hands.  “He brought his entire department with him.”

“He _what_?”  Courfeyrac jumps up and lunges toward the window.  As she and Grantaire watch, the red car parks and Enjolras climbs out.  The other cars follow suit, revealing the rest of the Parks staff.

Grantaire turns to Courfeyrac, one eyebrow raised.

“Okay, all I did was call Bahorel, tell him the shutdown was over, and say we needed to talk about his department,” Courfeyrac says defensively.  And then, after a second, she adds, “Well, and Bahorel didn’t pick up, so I left a message and tried Enjolras.”

“Who stopped listening to what you had to say the moment you mentioned the shutdown is over,” Grantaire guesses.

Courfeyrac sighs.  “We need to go talk to them.”

Grantaire nods in agreement.  He yawns, stretches back in his chair, and stands slowly, like a cat waking from a long nap.  Courfeyrac speedwalks out of the office in the direction of the Parks department.  Grantaire follows  slowly.

“Parks and Recreation!” Courfeyrac shouts.

The Parks staff looks up.  Enjolras pauses mid-speech.  “Hello,” he says.  “What can we do for you, Courfeyrac?”

“Well, ah, there may have been a misunderstanding,” Courfeyrac explains.  “When I called Enjolras this morning, I didn’t fully explain the current situation at City Hall.”

“Yeah, most of you guys aren’t supposed to be here,” Grantaire adds, coming up behind his partner.  “We still haven’t worked out which of you can keep your jobs – we only wanted the heads of each department to come back so that basic functionality could be reinstated.”

The Parks department could probably take that news worse: Bahorel shrugs and retreats to his office, Bossuet startles and trips over a chair, Eponine yawns and takes out her phone.  Unsurprisingly, the most vocal reaction comes from Enjolras.

“I’ve developed a plan,” he says, taking a binder out of the bag hanging on his shoulder.  “It allows for forty-five percent budget cuts without too heavily devastating our vital services _and_ without laying off any employees.”

“But what are those employees going to do if you cut back on services?” Grantaire argues.  “Wouldn’t they be more productive using their skills somewhere else?”

Enjolras glares at Grantaire - there are embers glowing in his eyes, ready to catch flame at the slightest provocation.

“Okay - but the point is,” Courfeyrac cuts in, “the government is no longer shut down, but we still aren’t sure which changes we’re making in many areas.”

“Most of you won’t be paid for your time here today,” Grantaire says.

Bahorel and Eponine immediately move to leave, but Enjolras directs his glare onto them, halting them momentarily.

“Our department may not be back on its feet yet, but we can’t give up on it!” he shouts.  Grantaire half expects him to climb on top of a table.  “We will stay here until we have a solution!  We will remain at the bedside of our ailing comrade until it heals!  We will fight for our town!  We will not give up!”

“Your determination is very impressive,” Courfeyrac says.  “I literally have never met a group of people as dedicated to their work as you are.”

As though to punctuate Courfeyrac’s words, Eponine’s phone chimes.  “Sorry,” she deadpans, without moving to silence it.

Grantaire resists the temptation to snicker.  To his credit, when he tells the department, “Good luck with that, guys,” it’s much less sarcastic than it could’ve been.

As Grantaire and Courfeyrac leave for their office, Enjolras is organizing brainstorming teams.  Grantaire has to admit, the man’s conviction is impressive, albeit borderline insane.

* * *

Enjolras arrives at the hospital at lunchtime to find it busier than an ice cream shop on a hot summer day.  There are people crowding into every waiting room and queueing at every reception desk, doctors and nurses rushing through every corridor, urgent cases being decided left and right.  Every time he comes here, Enjolras is amazed by how much is happening at once.

And in the middle of that ocean of chaos, Combeferre is an island of calm.  Enjolras catches sight of her standing near the end of the hallway, engaged in two simultaneous conversations with two different nurses but never missing a beat in either.  She’s incredible, really – Enjolras has always thought so, ever since she stood up in the middle of a public forum and demanded that the city government fill in a pit near her house.  Combeferre is an amazing doctor, the smartest person Enjolras knows, and knowledgeable about practically any topic.  And yet, somehow, she’s always available to talk Enjolras out of crazy ideas.  Sometimes, he thinks she’s some kind of guardian angel.

As Enjolras watches, Combeferre finishes her conversations, freeing her to go on break for lunch.  But before he can approach her, someone speeds past him – beating him to the punch.

“Combeferre!” Courfeyrac exclaims.  She points one finger gun at the doctor (the other hand is engaged in holding a plastic water bottle.)

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre replies, flustered.  “What are you doing here?”

Courfeyrac reaches an arm up and bends to one side, stretching.  “I was jogging by the hospital on my daily 10K, so I thought I’d stop in here and say hi,” she explains.  “And, well,” she goes on, standing up straight and directing a million-watt grin at Combeferre, “ask if you would reconsider going on a date with me.”

Combeferre sighs.  “I’ll tell you the same thing I said before: I prefer to have an emotional connection with someone before I date them.  Can’t we just be friends?”

“We can,” Courfeyrac agrees, “but I will continue to ask you.  At, you know, reasonable intervals.  In a nice manner.  Possibly with flowers.”

“Yeah, I get the idea,” Combeferre says.  She’s smiling a little – Enjolras thinks that’s a good sign.

“See you later, Ferre!”  Courfeyrac smiles at Combeferre one last time, then jogs past Enjolras and out of the hospital.

“What was that?” Enjolras asks, approaching his friend.  “She’s been asking you out?”

“Yeah, in between somehow becoming friends with me.”  Combeferre runs a hand through her hair.  (It looks perfect, as always.)  “I’m not entirely sure how that happened – one night three months ago, she got my phone number, and now, she’s texted me at least two hundred different emojis.”  Combeferre and Enjolras start walking out of the hospital, pausing for Combeferre to punch out for her break.

“But why don’t you want to go out with her?” Enjolras says once they pass through the front door.  “She’s nice, she likes you, and – obviously I’m not the best judge of this, but – she’s not bad on the eyes.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to go out with her,” Combeferre explains.  “It’s that I don’t know her.  I only get involved with people I’m already familiar with, Enjolras.  You know that.  And that night I got drunk does not count as getting to know Courfeyrac.”

“The last three months do,” Enjolras argues.  He scans the crowded hospital parking lot, trying to remember where he parked his car.  Combeferre follows his gaze and picks the car out almost immediately, then points him in the right direction.  As they start heading across the lot, Enjolras goes on, “You said it yourself – you’re friends.  You’ve talked.  You probably know a lot about her, right?”

“I suppose,” Combeferre admits.  “But I still don’t know.  I’ve never really talked to her for more than a few minutes at a time, and all of those times have usually just been her asking me out.  She’s persistent, I’ll admit, but the pressure does make me uncomfortable.”

Enjolras considers that for a moment.  Courfeyrac is good at persuading people, apparently – but if Enjolras wants to save his department, he has to persuade the master.  Local government can be a tricky game, and Enjolras doesn’t have any aces up his sleeve.  And yet, on second thought … He might not have any aces, but he _does_ have a queen.

“Combeferre,” Enjolras says, stopping in front of his car and turning to face her.  “Would you be willing to do things that a prostitute does?  But in a limited fashion?  And the money wouldn’t be for you?”

He’s got that look in his eye that translates to, _We’re going to win a victory for the greater good but we’re not going to do it in a morally right way._  Combeferre knows that look all too well.  Doesn’t stop her from agreeing to his schemes at least half of the time.

* * *

> __  
> To: Courfeyrac  
>  From: Combeferre  
>  Monday, 12:42 P.M.
> 
> _What would you say to the suggestion of us going out tonight?_  
>  Not romantically, but just in order to get to know each other better?  As friends?  
>  Something of a practice date, if you will?
> 
> _To: Combeferre_  
>  From: Courfeyrac  
>  Monday, 12:51 P.M.
> 
> _!!!!!!!!!!!  
>  _ _(_ _✿_ _♥_ _‿_ _♥)   (_ _づ｡◕‿‿◕｡_ _)_ _づ_ _(_ _◕‿_ _-)_

* * *

“So, what are your ideas?” Marius asks.

Eponine looks up from her very important game of Pacman.  “My what?”

“Your ideas,” Marius repeats.  He scoots his chair towards her, eager-eyed and grinning.  “For saving the department.”

Upon closer inspection, Eponine can see that he’s holding a notebook, opened to a blank page with _Ideas for Saving the Department_ written at the top.  Enjolras paired the two of them together for brainstorming about an hour ago – she’d gone on an excursion to the fourth floor in search of new weird smells to list in her Weird Smells Book, and completely forgotten about the whole thing.

“Jesus,” she says wonderingly.  “You’re actually taking this seriously.”

Marius frowns in confusion.  “Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s just another job,” Eponine replies, leaning back in her chair.  “Lose this one, find a new one.  It’s, like, the circle of life or something.”

“But this job is important!” Marius argues.  “This department helps make people’s lives better, just like Enjolras keeps saying.  And besides, all of you guys are my friends.  I don’t want to go to a new job away from my friends.”

He turns this expression on her: part wounded puppy dog, part pleading kitten.  Eponine can see that Marius genuinely cares about so much – and not in the way that Enjolras cares, all fire and brimstone and save the world or die trying, but in his own quiet way, quiet and simple and good.  Marius would happily sit at a desk for hours on the off chance that someone might come in and ask him for help.  He’s incompetent at half the tasks in his job description, it’s true, but he remembers everyone’s birthday and smiles genuinely every single morning.  He’s the kind of person who is changing the world slowly, one good deed at a time – and Eponine can make herself forget that most of the time, but then, on days like today, it’ll hit her like a high-speed train and she’s gone.  She is _gone._

Eponine sighs.  “Okay, how about we start a program that teaches kids how to form human pyramids, and then we tear up all the playgrounds and sell the metal to Middle Eastern arms dealers?”

* * *

Combeferre pulls up to the parking lot of the restaurant in her silver Honda, parks, and turns the engine off.  She’s early – two minutes early, she informs herself with a glance at her dashboard (the tenth such glance in as many minutes.)

She pulls down the mirror above her seat and examines her reflection.  Usually, Combeferre doesn’t pay much attention to how she looks – she can’t particularly be bothered – but today, she spent possibly too long picking out an outfit: a dark red dress, black high-heeled boots, and a dark jean jacket.  She tried brushing her hair three different ways, wearing headbands, and using clips, and eventually settled on the same style she wears every day.  Combeferre even brought out her make-up – lipstick, and eyeliner she bought years ago and saves for special occasions.  It’s been months since the last time Combeferre even considered a romantic relationship, and this, now, might be a favor to Enjolras, but it still feels like a real date.  She’s got that same pounding heart, that same churning in her stomach.  She’s on edge, mentally running through a thousand possible scenarios, none of them particularly good –

“ _DON’T WANNA BE AN AMERICAN IDIOT_ –”

Combeferre startles, nearly knocking her phone off the dashboard.  After a moment, she picks it up and hits the talk button.  It’s Enjolras calling – she set that ringtone for him as a joke years ago and never changed it, mostly because it annoys him.  His vision for a better tomorrow is so much better than some punk band, or so he claims.

“Hey,” she greets him.  “What’s going on?”

“Are you there yet?” Enjolras asks.

“Yeah, just about to go in.”  Combeferre closes the mirror and opens her door to get out – somehow, saying she was going to go in made the action easier.

“Okay.  And you ... You remember what you need to do?”

Combeferre sighs as she steps out.  “Yeah.  Although I’m still not entirely sure how to go about doing this.  The Parks department isn’t exactly typical dinner conversation.”

“It’s easy,” Enjolras replies.  “Like this: ‘Oh, what do you like to do for fun?’  ‘I like to go to the park.  Speaking of parks, do you realize that the Parks department is the best department in Pawnee?’  There you go.”

“Right.”  Combeferre crosses the parking lot.  A few more steps and she’ll be inside the restaurant.  On a date.  With Courfeyrac.  “Okay, Enjolras, I have to go now.”

“Call me as soon as it’s over!  Good luck!” Enjolras shouts into the phone.  As though the louder he is, the more likely it is that she’ll listen to him.

Combeferre ends the call with a faint beep, slips her phone into her purse, and stands for a moment, just looking at the door.  After letting a few seconds pass, she shakes her head and goes inside.

The restaurant is Italian, owned by a local family.  It’s nice, but not too fancy – perfect for a first date, Combeferre supposes; she hasn’t been on many.  Upon looking around, it’s easy to spot Courfeyrac at a table near the front.  Her face lights up when she spots Combeferre – and, okay, even after knowing the woman for three months, Combeferre is still floored by her brilliant smile.  And she cleans up nicely, too, in a blue skirt and white sweater that bring out the dark color of her eyes.  Plus, she apparently is capable of multiple hairstyles, which is more than Combeferre can say for herself.

“Combeferre!” Courfeyrac exclaims.  She stands up as Combeferre approaches, then jumps around to the other side of the table to pull out her chair.  “I thought you would never come.”

“Never?  I’m only a few minutes late.”  Combeferre sits down and lets Courfeyrac push her chair in.  (Nobody has ever done this before, and she’s decided to enjoy it while it lasts.  She feels like some kind of princess.)

Courfeyrac checks her watch, then gasps overdramatically.  “Oh, my God, you’re right.  I thought it had been hours.”

Courfeyrac smiles at that.  "You must have a severely warped sense of time perception, then," she says.

"I know."  Courfeyrac sighs as she sits down.  "It's one of my fatal flaws.  Well, that, and the way I always cry at the ends of movies."

"I wouldn't call that a fatal flaw," Combeferre replies.  "It means you feel very strongly - that's a good thing."

"Yeah, tell that to my non-waterproof mascara." Courfeyrac picks up and opens the menu sitting in front of her - a waiter must've dropped them off at some point, Combeferre didn't even notice.  "So, what do you think you'll get for dinner?  All _I_ can say for sure right now is that _literally_ everything looks delicious."

"I think I'll have the ravioli," Combeferre answers.  "They make them from scratch here."

"Really?  That sounds _wonderful."_ Courfeyrac peruses the menu for a minute, then looks up.  "Hey, Combeferre, can I ask you a question?  There's something that has literally been bothering me for months."

Combeferre is intrigued.  "Um, sure," she says. "What is it?"

" _Why_ does everyone in the Parks department refer to each other by last name?  Aren't they friends?"

Combeferre laughs.  "Yeah, they're friends.  But they can't call each other by first names because they all have the same one."

“The same one?  You’re kidding,” Courfeyrac says.

“Nope, I’m completely serious.  Everyone in that department - everyone except Eponine - is named Jean.  And my first name is Joan, and Eponine’s friend is Jehan, so that makes both of us honorary Parks department members.”

Courfeyrac shakes her head, amazed.  “This really is an amazing town.”

The date progresses from there - Courfeyrac asks Combeferre about work, and then somehow she's telling all of her favorite stories from medical school, and Courfeyrac is laughing, laughter lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes - and Combeferre is struck by a sudden urge to kiss those wrinkles, to find out what Courfeyrac's laughter tastes like.

She's saved from questioning the desire when she hears someone speak up from behind her.

"Combeferre!  Courfeyrac!  What are you two doing here?"  Enjolras smiles at the two women as though excited to run into a couple of friends, but Combeferre knows better.  To be honest, she isn’t completely surprised he’s crashing their date - he wouldn’t want to trust the fate of his precious department to anyone, even her - but she isn’t exactly pleased, either.

“Combeferre and I are on a date,” Courfeyrac says.  Combeferre hopes she isn’t blushing at the proud tone in her voice.

“Oh, that sounds like fun.”  Enjolras is still smiling, just widely enough that Combeferre can tell it’s fake.  “Mind if I join you?  I don’t mean to interfere, but …”

“No, you aren’t interfering,” Courfeyrac assures him.  “In fact, I think you joining us is a great idea.  It would be our pleasure - right, Combeferre?”

No.  Not her pleasure.  But still, something about the word “our” - about Courfeyrac using one word for both of them, bringing them together so concisely - stops her from arguing.  “Sure,” she says.  “Why not?”

“Thank you.”  Enjolras pulls up a chair from a nearby table and sits down next to them.

“Do you want to order something?” Courfeyrac asks.  “I can go get our waiter.”

Enjolras shakes his head.  “No, I’m okay.  I’ll just ask for something the next time he stops by.  So, what are you two talking about?”

“Combeferre was just telling me some great stories from the hospital,” Courfeyrac says, smiling at Combeferre.  (Having that smile turned on her is like facing the brightness of the sun at midday.)

“Oh, nice,” Enjolras says.  “Did you tell her that story about the kid who got stuck in a trashcan at Ramsett Park?”

Combeferre knows what Enjolras is doing here.  Still, it’s a great story, and she’s not about to get into an argument with him in front of her … whoever Courfeyrac is.’

“This kid, about ten years old,” she begins, “got dared by his friends to climb into a trash can in the park.  They thought he could fit, since the garbage collectors had just come by and emptied it.  But he didn’t realize that those trash cans are wider at the top and narrower at the bottom - not person-shaped at all.  He got pretty stuck, and all his friends started calling him Trash Man.  They didn’t even call 911 for almost an hour.”

Courfeyrac laughs at that.  “Kids are terrible.”

“They love parks, though,” Enjolras says.  “Almost a quarter of Pawnee kids ages five to fifteen are involved in our Parks and Rec programs - did you know that?”

Courfeyrac’s eyes widen.  “Really?  That’s incredible.  How do you manage that?”

“Enjolras can be very persuasive,” Combeferre explains.  “He goes around to schools and recruits.  Sometimes I go along, if I’m not working.”

“Do you like kids, Ferre?” Courfeyrac asks, turning to her.  “I think they’re amazing - so positive, and so innocent.  So much potential.”

“That’s exactly what _I_ think!” Enjolras exclaims.

From there, the conversation turns to children, then is steered back to Parks department programs.  By the time their meals arrive, Enjolras is describing his five-year plan for the department to Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac is nodding along enthusiastically.

“So you see,” Enjolras says between bites of salad, “Parks and Rec needs a higher budget because our services are so crucial to the community.  You have to consider that.”

“I _am_ ,” Courfeyrac replies.  “But I have a lot of other things to consider.  Right now, for example, I need to consider that my bladder is about to explode.”  She gets up, putting her napkin on her chair.  “I’m off to find the bathroom.  Ferre, try not to miss me too much.”  She winks, and Combeferre blushes in spite of herself.

The moment she’s out of earshot, Enjolras turns to Combeferre.  “This is going so well,” he whispers enthusiastically.  “She might actually give us the money.”

“Give _you_ the money,” Combeferre corrects.

Enjolras looks at her more closely.  He’s not great at reading most people, but Combeferre is decidedly not most people.  “Ferre?  Is something wrong?”

Combeferre sighs.  “I just don’t like this deception - it makes me uncomfortable.  I wish I could just have a regular date with her.”

“You can have a regular date with her after this,” Enjolras says.  “It would be weird if I left now.  And besides, you’re really helping me out.  The Parks department is -”

“Is _what_?”

Combeferre spins around and - and there’s Courfeyrac, looking like someone just punched her in the gut.

“The line was too long, so I came back,” she says faintly.  Then, louder, “Why did you think you needed to deceive me?”

“We didn’t,” Combeferre tries to say.  “I mean, I didn’t.  I mean - I’m sorry.”

Courfeyrac shakes her head sadly.  “You know, Enjolras, if you had just talked to me openly, I would have listened.  There’s nothing I hate more than deception.”  She turns around and walks away, her high heels clicking out a melancholy tune.

Combeferre sighs and slowly lowers her head onto the table.

“Shit,” she whispers.

* * *

Enjolras finds himself at City Hall.

City Hall at night is quiet, surreal - a barren landscape of half-finished projects and posters for events long over.  He wanders the halls aimlessly, hoping that some kind of inspiration will strike him, like a lightning bolt of local government energy.

He stops in front of a banner from decades ago: an advertisement for the Pawnee Harvest Festival.  It used to be the biggest event of the year for Parks and Rec, drawing people from all over the state to Pawnee, but it was cut from the budget years ago, before Enjolras was hired.  What happened to that department? he wonders.  How did they let their biggest event, their pride and joy, go?  Didn’t they fight for it?  Where are they now?

“What the hell are you doing here?” a voice asks from behind him.

Enjolras does an about-face to find Bahorel staring at him as though he has several heads.  Bahorel, in City Hall, after dark.  Enjolras frankly never thought he’d see the day.

“I could ask you the same question,” he says.

Bahorel crosses his arms against his chest.  “I was shopping at Food and Stuff when I realized I’d left my wallet here, so I came to get it,” he explains.  “Now, you.”

Enjolras hesitates for a moment, then admits, “I was trying to get funding for our department by setting up Combeferre and Courfeyrac and then crashing their date.”

Bahorel lets out a low whistle.  “That’s fucked up.”

“I know.  I messed up.”  Enjolras runs his hands through his hair.  “I’ve ruined my chance to make a good impression on Courfeyrac, and I was so focused on the department, I ignored Combeferre’s feelings.  I don’t know what I’m going to do now.”

“ _I_ know what you’re going to do now,” Bahorel tells him.

“You do?”

Bahorel takes a few steps, reaches out, and throws a comforting arm across Enjolras’ shoulder.  “You’re going to think of something,” he says simply.  “You always do.  As far as I know, there aren’t many incorrigible truths in this world, but three of them are: uninterrupted capitalism generates revenue, meat tastes excellent, and Enjolras will always think of something.”

“Wait – Bahorel, that’s it!” Enjolras shouts, suddenly grinning.

Bahorel looks at him curiously.  “What’s it?  Meat?  Yes, I agree.”

“No, revenue – we don’t need to save money, we need to _make_ money.”  Enjolras bounces on the balls of his feet, buoyed by his newfound optimism.

“Okay, as a libertarian, I am in full support of that proposal, but how exactly would we do it?” Bahorel asks.

Enjolras points at the banner above his head.  Bahorel stares at it, then cocks his head, squinting.  “Old drawings of cornucopias?”

“No, the Harvest Festival!”  Enjolras starts to grin – and Bahorel recognizes this expression.  It’s an expression of a man who has a vision and will do anything to make that vision a reality.  It’s the reason Bahorel hired him.

“We reinstate the Pawnee Harvest Festival,” Enjolras goes on.  “We bring in vendors, games, food.  We attract people from all over the state.  We make enough money to fund our department for at least a couple of months, if not the rest of the year.  And, best of all, we make it clear to the state of Indiana that Pawnee is a place with great traditions, great people, fun – wait, where are you going?”

About two sentences into Enjolras’ speech, Bahorel had started walking away from him.  Now, he’s almost out of earshot.

“For once, I actually like what you’re saying, Enjolras,” Bahorel calls over his shoulder.  “But this is work talk, and it’s way after five P.M.  Save your speeches for tomorrow morning.”

“They’re going to be excellent speeches!” Enjolras shouts.  “They’ll have Thomas Jefferson quotes in them!”

Bahorel pretends not to hear him.

* * *

“So, why is the entire Parks department here again?” Grantaire asks.  He widens his stride, struggling to keep up with Courfeyrac.

She shrugs.  “Not sure.  They just said they wanted to show me something.”

“Well, if Enjolras is behind it, it’s sure to be interesting,” Grantaire says.

They head down the remaining part of the hallway and push open the door to the department, and Grantaire is right - whatever’s going on here, it’s certainly interesting.

A new banner is hanging over the back wall, old and faded with forest green letters reading, “Pawnee Harvest Festival.”  Beneath it, drawings, files, and a couple of Enjolras’ signature binders sit on a table.  The Parks department staff (minus Marius, for some reason) is gathered around the table, some of them holding baskets of fruits and vegetables.

“What’s all this?” Courfeyrac asks.

“The Harvest Festival,” Enjolras explains, stepping forward.  “Decades ago, this was the town’s biggest event, but it was cancelled years ago due to budget cuts.  We’re proposing we bring it back now.”

“With people from all over the state attending and charging for food, rides, and other attractions, we should be able to make enough money for the Parks department to fund itself,” Bahorel adds.

“And if we do, then we can all keep our jobs,” Enjolras finishes.  “Right?”

Courfeyrac looks at Grantaire.  Grantaire looks at Courfeyrac.  Courfeyrac widens her eyes pleadingly.  Grantaire shrugs.

“Okay, why not?” he says.  “Go for it.”

Enjolras grins.  He opens his mouth, probably to shout something celebratory, but before he can get a chance, a veritable tornado bursts through the door.

“Guys guys guys guys!” Marius shouts.  He sprints towards the group, skids to a halt, knocks into Bossuet, and steadies himself against the table.  “I was in the park, walking over here, and I saw - I saw this girl.  No, I can’t call her a girl, she was too beautiful for that.  She was an angel.  A goddess!  Beauty personified!  She glanced at me, and it was as though my life started - as though all of my years on earth before this were just - just some kind of dream preparing me for _this_ \- and I don’t know her name, I don’t even know her name, but I - I -”  Marius flops against the table, taking giant, wheezing breaths.

“Breathe, buddy,” Courfeyrac says.  She puts a hand on Marius’ back.  “Breathe.  Steady.  In and out.”

For a moment, the room is silent as the rise and fall of Marius’ chest slows to an even pace.

And then, Enjolras breaks the silence.  “Wait, Marius, weren’t you supposed to bring corn?”

“Oh, no.”  Marius smacks his hand across his forehead.  “I dropped it in the park!”

“What?” Enjolras exclaims.  “Don’t you care about the department?  About our town?”

“Hey, chill,” Grantaire says before Marius can answer.  “Give the guy a break.  He’s in love.”

“I don’t even know her name,” Marius moans quietly.

Nobody notices that Eponine has been frozen in place for the past two minutes.

* * *

Halfway through lunch hour, someone opens the door to the city manager’s office.

“Grantaire!” Courfeyrac exclaims, without turning around.  “You’re back from lunch early.”

“Um,” someone says.

Courfeyrac turns around – and it isn’t Grantaire standing in the doorway.  It’s Combeferre, clad in scrubs and holding a bouquet of red roses.  She looked lovely last night, on their date which turned out to not really be a date, but she looks lovelier now.  Something about how natural and at ease she looks in her doctor’s coat, or the knowledge that she’s going to work to save lives – Courfeyrac is far gone.  She’s mad, and she’s still far gone.  

“Look, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre continues quickly, “I just want to apologize for last night.  Yes, it’s true that Enjolras and I had a plan to use our date to get his department funding, but I regretted agreeing to that plan almost as soon as I got to the restaurant.  I was really enjoying our date – genuinely enjoying it – before he showed up, and I would love it if you would give me a second chance, a real chance, even though I know I don’t deserve it.  So, that’s it.”

The doctor stands in the doorway, moving her weight from one foot to the other and refusing to meet Courfeyrac’s eyes.  After a moment, she remembers the flowers in her hand and thrusts them at Courfeyrac.  “Oh, and these are for you.”

Courfeyrac can feel a smile dawning upon her face.  “A second chance, huh?” she repeats.  “Okay.  Sure.  We can do that.”

Combeferre grins, and that grin might not be able to out-shine the sun, but it’s lovelier than any distant star Courfeyrac has ever seen.  She whispers a silent _thank you_ to any and all gods who might be responsible.

“You can’t tell Enjolras, though,” Courfeyrac adds.

“Oh, I can assure you, I won’t,” Combeferre says.  “Not for at least another year.”

“A whole year?  That’s too cruel.  Give it a week.”

“A week?  He doesn’t deserve that.  A month.”

The argument rages for another minute, then descends into more flirting, and then Combeferre realizes she’s very late for her shift at the hospital.  She assures Courfeyrac that she doesn’t mind being late, and – going by the soft smile on her face when she finally leaves – Courfeyrac is inclined to believe her.


End file.
